


then i look in my heart (there's a light in the dark)

by stonesnuggler



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Career Ending Injuries, Future Fic, Getting Together, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Slow Burn, Unrequited Love, early retirement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-20 00:41:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13135554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonesnuggler/pseuds/stonesnuggler
Summary: He’s balancing on one leg, tossing a medicine ball at the wall when the physical therapist -- Matt, he’s pretty sure -- asks, “So what made you come back?”He catches the ball -- nearly losing his balance in the process -- and shrugs.“Needed a change of scenery, I guess,” Taylor says, tosses the ball and catches it again before switching legs.Matt quirks an eyebrow. “Right. So you came back to Edmonton, because that makes perfect sense.”“It did to me,” Taylor says, and it’s taken a bit to realize that, but he means it. “Family, friends, all that nonsense.”“Well, welcome home,” Matt says. “Get your ass on the bike.”





	then i look in my heart (there's a light in the dark)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thistidalwave](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thistidalwave/gifts).



> hi jenny!! i was glad to read that you and i both believe that the taylor/ryan aspect is the least developed part of kidline, so i ran with it. i might have ran a little too far. anyway, i hope you enjoy!! 
> 
> huge thanks to my multitudes of g's, l's, and j's that helped cheerlead this piece, to JT for the beta, and to m for giving me the idea in the first place. this is your baby as much as it's mine.
> 
> if you or anyone you know is tagged, do us all a favor and throw your computer from a tall building!

_ April 2020 _

_X_

“Hallsy, on your right!”

Even through the roar of the crowd, the shred of the ice underneath his skates, he can still hear Nico’s call loud and clear. An easy look to his right, stick down, and there’s the familiar crack of the puck going tape to tape. 

Deke, fake, shoot. Pipe and in. 

The rest is familiar-- the goal horn, the celly pile, the goal song blaring in his ears.

Except that’s not the goal song. 

That’s not the goal song, and there isn’t an NHL team with purple sweaters, and he’s pretty sure Nico is shorter than him. 

“You better get that,” Not-Nico says, and holy shit, his accent is gone. How did he not notice that before? What the hell is going on?

Taylor blinks as they start moving toward the bench. “What?” 

 

“Answer the phone, Taylor,” Nico says.

 

_X_

 

Taylor wakes up. He answers the phone. 

“Okay, before you yell at me, I know by even calling you right now that I’m breaking our playoff pact, but--”

Taylor blinks, rubs the sleep out of his eyes. “Ebs?” 

“Good morning sunshine,” Jordan says, but he doesn’t sound too sunshiney. “Check your phone.” 

“I’m  _ on _ my phone,” Taylor says, still confused. Jordan’s sigh crackles through the speaker. 

Taylor checks his phone.

 

**theScore**

**BREAKING -- See ya, Chia: Fruitless Oilers fire Chiarelli while 4 major trade pieces experience Stanley Cup Playoffs.**

 

**NHL**

**EDM: Oilers clean house, fire Chiarelli after Nugent-Hopkins deal falls through.**

 

**TSN**

**Trade Bust: Deal with Sabres, Nugent-Hopkins busts -- Oilers fire Chiarelli in frustrating aftermath.**

 

“Holy fuck,” Taylor breathes, now fully awake, heart pounding in his chest. “Holy  _ fuck,  _ Jordan.” 

“I know,” Jordan says, voice a little raw, a little amused. “Right?”

It’s silent for a beat that would be too long if it were anyone other than Jordan on the other end.

“Were they really going to trade Nuge to Buffalo?” Taylor says, finally. 

Jordan sighs, and Taylor can almost see him pinching the bridge of his nose. “That’s  _ really  _ not the point.” 

It’s quiet again, but it’s a loaded one. One that’s angry and sad and disappointed and--

“Can’t believe Nugget was the final straw,” Taylor sighs, looks up at the ceiling. Jordan sighs with him.

“Yes you can,” he says, voice void of any emotion at all. That’s scarier to Taylor than any emotional extreme, and always has been. 

But he’s right, is the point. Taylor can believe that Ryan was the final straw. This bright eyed, fluffy kid that came into this organization just under ten years ago, who loved this city and found the city loving him back. 

Taylor still wishes the city would’ve loved him back.

A voice in the back of his head says  _ It’s been four years, Taylor, let it go.  _

It  _ has _ been four years. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever let it go.

“Listen, uh,” Jordan says, obviously put off by the extended silence. “I should go. You should get back to your nap.”

They both know that won’t happen, but Taylor accepts the out. 

“I’ll see you out there,” Taylor says. 

_ I wish we were wearing the same blue and orange,  _ he doesn’t say.

“I’d say good luck, but,” Jordan says, and Taylor can hear the hint of a smile.

“Fuck off, Ebs,” Taylor says. 

_ I love you,  _ he means.

 

/ 

 

New Jersey wins that game. And the next. And the one after that. The Islanders get one back, a comeback win after Taylor goes down, has a hard time getting up -- and staying -- up. He spent the intermission willing his knee to buck it the fuck up and get with the program, that they’ve got a series to win, but Jordan puts the nail in the coffin in overtime.

He’s really not ready to hear years and years of “New Jersey blew a three-nothing lead”, so he gets a cortisone shot, pops some extra-strength ibuprofen, and bucks it the fuck up.

They win the next game. He and Jordan hug it out at center ice, and Taylor sees it for days afterwards on Twitter, on news outlets, in the secret groupchat he still has of former Oilers. He’s sure it’s reached secret parts of the internet that he hasn’t touched since his rookie year, but he’s definitely not going to check.

Something aches in his chest at how it just feels wrong to be on different sides of the play. He and Jordan had always been on the same side, on the same line, on the same page.

Well, not always.

 

//

  
  


_ November 2012 _

 

Taylor gets blindsided by one bright-eyed, fluffy Ryan Nugent-Hopkins after a couple of beers and more than a couple lost rounds of Mario Kart.

“So are we going to acknowledge whatever is going on with you and Ebs, or are we just ignoring that?” 

Taylor chokes on the popcorn he had just tossed into his mouth. 

Nuge smiles, quick and small. “Yeah, we’re talking about it.”

“Nothing to talk about,” Taylor coughs, popcorn shell caught in his throat, scratching as he tries to swallow.

“Bullshit,” Nuge says, takes a handful of popcorn for himself. The dumb animated music of the paused screen is still playing behind them which, frankly, makes Taylor a little more freaked out that they’re having this conversation Right Now.

“Nah,” Taylor says, laughs a little and tosses his controller to the couch. He’ll blame the lilt in his voice on the popcorn trauma. “There really isn’t.” 

“Oh,” Nuge says. There’s a beat, then  _ “Oh.  _ Fuck, dude, that sucks. _ ”  _

Taylor sighs a laugh, scrubs a hand at his face. “Yeah, well.” 

“So you’re--” 

“Bi, yeah,” Taylor fills in. It’s common knowledge at this point, he figures. Better to tell him now than have to awkwardly explain if Nuge catches a guy leaving their apartment after he picks up.

Nuge nods. “And Jordan’s--”

Taylor has to bite back a laugh, because what the fuck is his life. “So,  _ so  _ straight.” 

Nuge’s face does something then, somewhere between sad and inquisitive, and he’s got his bottom lip tucked between his teeth. Taylor knocks his knee against Ryan’s, just once, just easy. 

“What’s up?” Taylor asks, going for casual but probably missing by miles. He takes a drink, waits Nuge out. 

Nuge smiles shy, laughs a little through his nose, “Guess that makes Jordan the token straight one.” 

Taylor tries to make his face do something other than ‘shocked’ but he’s not sure he manages. “You’re--”

“Not sure,” Nuge fills in, shrugs a little. “I just know that I like guys, too. Or maybe just guys.”

“That makes sense,” Taylor says, because it does. It took Taylor a good year or two to process that he had the same feelings about guys that he had about girls. “Thanks for telling me, dude.” 

“I mean, secret for a secret, right?” Nuge says, but he does look a little more relaxed. “Even if yours is the worst kept one.” 

“Fuck off,” Taylor says, a little weak, but he manages to smile anyway. 

 

//

 

_ April 2011 _

 

“What do you mean,” Jordan says, cold sweat breaking out on his palms.

Taylor’s gone a little pale, jaw clenched like he’s preparing for a fight. He’s not looking at Jordan, and that’s the scariest part. 

“What part of that didn’t you get?” Taylor says, finally meeting Jordan’s eyes. 

That’s the thing-- Jordan totally gets it. He gets it in the way Taylor looks at him in the morning when he’s put a fresh pot of coffee on, in the way Taylor will make him tea even though he can’t stand the smell of Earl Grey, in how easily his very few walls come down when they’re at home. 

He gets it. He just wishes he got it in the way Taylor wants him to.

“Taylor, you know I love you,” Jordan says. The words immediately feel sour and wrong, punctuated by the way Taylor takes a deep, shaky breath as he hears them. “I just--” 

“No, I--” Taylor starts, and he’s smiling but it’s not reaching his eyes. “It’s okay.” 

_ It’s not _ , Jordan thinks.

“It’s not,” Jordan says, feels his voice shake around the words. 

“It will be,” Taylor says, leans back against the couch, carefully away from Jordan.

Jordan hates that. He never wants to make Taylor feel like that, like this changes anything. He throws an arm behind him, pulls him into a hug.

“I’m sorry, Tay,” Jordan says into his hair, and he means it. 

Taylor sniffs against Jordan’s chest, wraps his arm around his waist.

“Me, too.”

 

//

 

_ May 2020 _

 

Nico doesn’t even say hello before he’s stalking into Taylor’s Philadelphia hotel room and throwing himself onto the bed in the center of it with an exaggerated groan. 

“Same, kid,” Taylor says, barely even looking up from his book. 

Nico mumbles something unintelligible into the duvet and Taylor has to laugh. 

Taylor laughs lightly, barely audible and says, “you’re quitting hockey and running away to own a farm in the Swiss Alps?” 

The groan Nico answers with vaguely resembles real words this time, and Taylor sets his book down. He looks at Nico, sees how tired his eyes look, and remembers how this kid’s first playoff series was his first, too. They’ve grown together in that respect. 

“Gotta give me more than that, bud,” he says, setting a hand on Nico’s shoulder, rubbing easy circles.

Nico sighs, flips over, and says, “I didn’t think it’d be this hard.”

“Didn’t think what would be this hard,” asks Taylor, but he already knows. They’ve lived together long enough for Taylor to know that Nico’s routine involves a certain second overall pick that has been listed as The Enemy for this series -- a classic case of media-forced rivalry. 

_ If only they knew _ , Taylor thinks. 

“I’ve never wanted to win something more in my life,” Nico says, like Taylor’s room is a church and this bed is a confessional. Taylor understands. He’s been there before -- in Edmonton, with Jordan, his first season in Jersey. He knows the feeling well.

“I’m sensing a ‘but’ in there somewhere,” Taylor says, kicks at Nico’s leg gently. 

Nico sighs again, lets his hair fall in front of his eyes. “There isn’t. I mean, I want Nolan to win too, but I want to win.” 

Taylor smiles, says, “There it is.” 

Nico sets his head in the space his arms are creating and letting his eyes fall shut. “Fuck off.” 

It’s quiet for a bit before Taylor leans over the side of the bed and grabs his laptop. “Suits?” 

“Please,” Nico says, pushes himself up and sets himself into Taylor’s side. 

They’re about halfway through the episode when a text pings in on Taylor’s laptop, a bright, stark contrast to the intense scene happening.

 

**Ebs | 9:42p**

go get em tomorrow 

 

He knows Nico reads it, knows he knows that Jordan texts Taylor the night before games. 

Nico doesn’t comment, just lets his head fall to Taylor’s shoulder, and Taylor’s grateful for the silence.

 

//

  
  


_ March 2013 _

 

“You’re what?” Taylor asks, dropping his newspaper so he can properly look at Jordan.

“It’s just a thought,” Jordan says, slow and enunciated and Taylor would bet that he’s practiced this. “Lauren and I are talking about rings and I don’t want to --” 

“No, I get it,” Taylor says, because he does. He wishes he didn’t, but he does. “Where are you thinking?” 

From there, it’s a lot of Jordan rambling about neighborhoods and parks and  _ school districts  _ which honestly make Taylor a little nauseous.

He’s over Jordan, he thinks. For the most part. He’d like to believe he is, anyway. He still gives himself a pat on the back when his heart doesn’t flutter at Jordan’s bed-head as he stumbles out for his tea, still allows himself kudos for not imagining it was him instead of Lauren when she’s over and they’re cuddling on the couch. 

So, maybe he’s not over him. But he’s sure as hell a lot closer than he was last year. 

Baby steps, Whits had told him when he first got to the show. Bet he didn’t think that the advice would apply to this situation, too. 

“That’s really cool, man,” Taylor manages, once Jordan’s found a stopping point. “I’m happy for you.” 

Jordan smiles, a soft, genuine thing that almost makes Taylor believe that he actually is happy for him. “You’re not upset?” 

“Nah,” Taylor says dismissively. “I’ll just have to adopt a rookie or something. Wouldn’t be much of a difference.” 

“Fuck off,” Jordan says, rolling his eyes.

“Love you, too, asshole,” says Taylor. 

Jordan doesn’t flinch anymore when he says it, at least. Baby steps.

 

//

 

_ April 2015 _

 

Jordan’s fiancée is sitting on Taylor’s couch. 

This isn’t anything new or surprising, but she’s there, and the ring on her finger is glimmering in the light of the lamp she’s sitting next to, and Taylor is doing just fine. 

Jordan is next to her, drink in hand and plate balanced perfectly on his knee. Lauren is tucked neatly into his side, picking off the plate every once in a while and Taylor starts to wonder when Jordan started liking carrots. 

“We’re going to win the otter boy, yes?” Nail says, flops onto the other couch next to Taylor, nearly spilling his plate in the process. 

Jordan laughs behind a drink of his beer, throws his arm around Lauren. “Do we really ‘win’ if we’re even in the running for him?” 

“We’ll just have another member of the FOGC,” Taylor says, just as Ryan comes to sit on his other side.  

“Do I even  _ want  _ to know what that is?” Jordan says, squinting at the three of them.

“Is groupchat of three of us,” Nail says, crunching on his chips. 

“First overall group chat,” Nuge clarifies, and Taylor can hear him rolling his eyes. “It started as a joke but somehow it became an actual thing.” 

“An  _ awesome  _ actual thing,” Taylor adds, and Nuge laughs next to him. 

“Maybe you’ll actually get that rookie after all, eh, Hall Pass?” Jordan says. It throws Taylor for so much of a loop that he’s left there with his eyes wide, no words coming out of his mouth.

“Oh-ho-ho,” Gaz says, cracking a beer open as he comes into the living room, settling himself into the lounger. “These hotshots think they’re too good for us now, eh?” 

The commercial ends, and Nursey and Leon try, to nearly no avail, to shut everyone up. Taylor finally looks away from Jordan, focuses on the TV, and takes a long drink of his beer. 

The theatrics of the draft lottery are lost on Taylor at this point. Judging by the way that Ryan is actively fiddling with his phone, Taylor would bet that he feels the same way. They’ve been here before, sitting back stage while some guy with pristine white gloves decides their fate. They know how McDavid feels, the expectations that are following them, how he wants so desperately to be the last in the line of first overalls. 

They really don’t need any more people in the groupchat. They’re closed for business, after McDavid, of course. 

They win the draft lottery. They lost so much that they won Connor fucking McDavid, and while that is titled a win, nobody is really celebrating. 

 

//

 

_ June 2020 _

 

Taylor can’t feel the bottom half of his leg. That’s not anything new from the last couple days, he reasons, but it’s still a fact, and one that’s a bit disheartening given the situation.

The situation it and of itself isn’t disheartening; they’re up three-one in game five of the  _ Cup Final _ , and Taylor’s gotten about thirty-one cortisone shots in the last six weeks. 

Okay, so that’s an exaggeration, but that’s what it’s felt like.

He’s got half a tube of icy-hot on his knee, so much that the fumes make him a little nauseous, but it’s worth it. They’ve got a chance, just over four minutes left in the third to keep their lead and  _ fucking win this _ and it’s… Well, it’s fucking terrifying. 

During a TV timeout, Henny smacks at his shinpads. “Stop making that face.” 

Taylor furrows his eyebrows, spits onto the ice. “I’m not making a face.” 

“You are,” Henny says, and Taylor can hear that stupid grin. “It’s the same one you had when you were over-thinking the Memmer. Just play your game, Tay.”

“Yeah,” Taylor says, knocks his elbow into Henny’s. 

There’s less than three minutes left in the game when Taylor takes the ice with Nico and Palms. His heart is hammering in his chest, the New Jersey crowd louder than he’s ever heard before in his life, and he thinks of the remaining time as a penalty kill. His knee is screaming at him, aching with every stride, even through the icy-hot, the cortisone shots, and he doesn’t care one fucking bit.

Taylor is still on the ice when three minutes turns to two. He’s off for maybe ten seconds when two minutes turns to one. There’s thirty seconds left when he gets tapped again, when thirty seconds turns to ten, turns to a count down and then -- 

Well, then it’s a blur. A goal-horn blaring, equipment throwing, ‘fuckin’ right’ yelling blur. 

The New Jersey Devils just won the fucking Stanley Cup. 

The next two minutes feel like twenty, what with all the hugging, and crying, and tripping over fucking sticks and Taylor doesn’t even know where to begin. Nico’s skating around idly, smiling at the Newark crowd with tears in his eyes and -- god, Taylor forget’s just how young the kid is sometimes. 

He forgets what it felt like when he was that young and full of hope. This is helping him remember, though.

 

/

 

Taylor’s not sure what bar the team has ended up in, to be entirely honest. He was supposed to be looking after Nico and Jesper, but they’ve fucked off somewhere else, which to be fair, the chaperoning might have been self-assigned. 

Anyway, that’s not the point. The point is that his cup is empty and he’s a Stanley Cup Champion, so his cup should very much  _ not  _ be empty. 

He’s heading up to the bar for the umpteenth time that night when he spots Jesper and Nico over by the Cup, like they can’t stand taking their eyes off of it for longer than a second. 

Taylor can relate. 

Drink be damned, Taylor walks up behind Nico, slings an arm around his shoulder and pulls him into a side hug. 

“Have you seen my phone?” he says, hopefully loud enough to be heard over the music. 

Nico turns, grins a little, and fishes the phone from his back pocket. “You dropped it when we were getting off the bus. I think it is dead.” 

Taylor takes it from him, clicks the home button, flooding the space around their faces with light. It’s not dead, but close to, and Taylor would bet it’s got some significant water damage. 

“You should call him,” Nico says, nudges Taylor with his shoulder.

Taylor quirks an eyebrow. “Call who?” 

Nico smirks, like he has the answers to the universe. “Call him, Hallsy.” 

There’s a pang in Taylor’s chest that he can’t quite describe, and Nico’s looking at him so earnestly, like Taylor knows exactly who he’s talking about when he really,  _ really  _ doesn’t. 

“Yeah, alright,” Taylor says, nodding easily. “I’ll be back.” 

Nico claps him on the back, and there’s champagne being poured into Nico’s mouth before Taylor can even make his way through the throng of people.

He gets outside fairly quickly, though, thumb hovering over the tiny blue phone icon of the contact he pulled up. He’s got less than five percent of his battery left, so it’s now or never, he supposes.

He clicks the call button, and there are only a few short rings before the line crackles to life. It’s a little quiet, just the rushing air in his ear, the breeze around him outside.

“Hello?” Taylor asks, almost brings the phone away from his ear to see if -- 

“Hey, Hall Pass.” 

 

//

 

_ July 2017 _

 

“Yeah, Hall Pass, I’m on my way,” Ryan is saying, phone jammed between his cheek and his shoulder as he attempts to pull on sweatpants. “Calm the fuck down.” 

“Bring Sophie,” Taylor says, like a thought. “You know, since you’re already going to be late.” 

Ryan huffs a sigh. “My alarm didn’t go off!” 

“You forgot to  _ set  _ your alarm, there’s a difference,” Taylor laughs. Ryan groans, but he grabs Sophie’s leash anyway, whistles her over and clips it to her collar. She’s already excited because of how much Ryan has been rushing around the last ten minutes, so she’s going to lose it when she realises she gets to go for a car ride. 

“I should’ve just made you take an Uber,” Ryan says, grabs his keys on his way out the door. 

Taylor gasps, all mock offense. “You would  _ never _ .” 

“Watch me,” Ryan says, can’t stop the smile that makes its way to his lips. 

“I’ll see you in twenty with my furbaby!” 

“She’s my dog!” Ryan protests, but the line goes dead before he can finish the sentence. 

Sophie barks happily as she gets settled in the back of the car, and Ryan doesn’t hesitate in rolling a window down for her, child-locking it before he starts the car and starts the drive. 

They’re almost there when she sticks her cold, wet nose in Ryan’s ear.

“Yeah, I know,” he says, reaches back and scratches at the back of her ear. “I’m excited to see him, too.” 

 

/ 

 

Taylor’s already outside by the time that Ryan pulls up to the pick-up lane at YEG and, judging by the crowd of people surrounding him, he’s been recognized. He looks a little frazzled, but in a good way, like he’s missed this.

Ryan would put money on Taylor actually missing it, is the thing. He loved Edmonton and everything that it entailed, even signing autographs after being on a four hour flight. Ryan can only hope he gets to love Edmonton like that for a little while longer. 

Ryan’s so caught up in watching Taylor work his charm over the small gathering of fans that he completely misses his escape. That is, until he hears a tap on the back window. He doesn’t jump, but it’s a near thing before he unlocks the hatch, lets Taylor throw his stuff in before he climbs in the passenger seat. 

Taylor looks -- well, he looks amazing for someone who just got off a plane after spending three weeks in paradise. There’s no vacation hangover, even with a pit stop in New Jersey to get the rest of the stuff he needed for the week. 

“Hey,” Ryan says, knocks his elbow against Taylor’s where it rests on the console.

Taylor smiles and Ryan’s heart does something he can’t quite explain. “Hey. Missed you.” 

“Maybe look at the dog when you’re speaking to her,” Ryan says, because he doesn’t even want to begin to process that. 

Taylor laughs, but he does turn around to greet a patient Sophie who immediately smothers him in slobbery kisses. He’s scratching behind both of her ears, baby-talking as he does so, and Ryan’s heart doesn’t stop doing that Thing. 

Jordan’s wedding is not a time to investigate what that Thing is, regardless of whether or not the Thing has been happening for a while.

The drive back to Ryan’s is an easy one. Taylor blabs on about his vacation in between smothering Sophie with love, and honestly, Ryan couldn’t really tell you what Taylor is saying.  He’s just happy to hear him so enthused about something.

He can’t remember the last time that happened. 

They get back to Ryan’s, Taylor takes Sophie out without any prompting and Ryan can’t help but think about how easy this all is. It’s comfortable, and familiar, and -- 

“Should I put my stuff in the guestroom?” Taylor asks, unclipping Sophie’s leash and hanging it on the coat rack. 

Well, it’s about to get a lot more comfortable. Maybe.

“That would be great,” Ryan says, scratches at the back of his neck, “if the guest room had a bed in it.” 

Taylor quirks an eyebrow, and the smile on his face is definitely one that is judging Ryan gently. “You’ve lived here since last summer.” 

“Yes, mother, I know,” Ryan says, rolls his eyes as he heads to the kitchen, fills Sophie’s food dish. 

Taylor says, “Cool if I nap in your bed then?” and Ryan’s brain nearly short-circuits. 

“Yeah, for sure,” Ryan says, grateful that Taylor’s in the living room and there is currently a wall and a half shielding Ryan from his view. “You’re like a dead man walking, go sleep.” 

“Missed you, too, Nugget,” Taylor calls, then he’s padding down the hallway before Ryan can do something stupid like follow him and climb into bed with him. 

Instead, he tucks himself into the corner of his couch, lets Sophie hop up with him, and buys a bed for the goddamn guest room.

 

/ 

 

Taylor is fidgeting before they even pull out of the driveway. He won’t stop messing with the buttons of his dress shirt, bouncing his leg, scratching at the back of his neck and it’s driving Ryan up a wall.

He can’t really blame him though. 

The GPS croaks out a direction and Ryan follows it, clears his throat and says, “how’re you doing?” 

Taylor hums, as if he’s been acting entirely normal this whole time. “What d’you mean?” 

Ryan side-eyes him, takes in the way he’s chewing on his lip. Taylor sighs, heavy and put-upon as he tips his head to rest it against the headrest. 

“I’m fine,” Taylor says, like he’s trying to convince himself. “I mean, it’s like -- I don’t know. My chest hurts and I’m not sure if it’s because I’m happy or what.” 

Ryan nods, turns another corner. “I mean, of course you are. He’s your best friend.” 

Taylor hums, rolls his sleeve up, looks out the window. 

“Hey,” Ryan says, knocks his elbow against Taylor’s where it’s resting on the console. “It’s hard, but I’ve got your back. Even if that means getting you wasted.”

Taylor smiles at that, breathes a little laugh. “Thanks, Nugget.”

Ryan holds his fist out. “Lineys for life, eh?” 

“Fuckin’ right,” Taylor says, bumps his fist against Ryan’s. 

 

/

 

The wedding itself is just the rehearsal dinner on steroids: a whirlwind of handshakes, too much whiskey, and Taylor trying (and mostly succeeding) to not let his feelings get the best of him.

Okay, maybe he got a little choked up during his speech when he was talking about how happy he was for Jordan, but that’s neither here nor there. 

Anyway, that’s not the point. The point is that he’s in Ryan’s car on his way back to the hotel, and Jordan is married to the love of his life, and surprisingly, Taylor’s doing just fine. 

“No, really,” he says, “I mean it.” 

Taylor gives Ryan credit for only looking a little skeptical, only because he’s skeptical himself. 

“Okay,” Ryan says as their Uber pulls up to the hotel. “It’s okay if you’re not, though.” 

“I know,” Taylor says, because he does.

They’re quiet as they make their way onto their floor, but the silence is easy as they walk down the hall. It’s late and Taylor’s sober enough not to do something dumb like follow Ryan into his hotel room, no matter how much he wants to. He’s not even sure Ryan would let him.

“Are you sure?” Ryan says, leans against the door to his room.

Taylor hums, non-committal and fiddles with his roomkey. “Didn’t think I would be,” he says, laughing slightly. “But yeah, Nugget. I’m sure.” 

Ryan pulls him into a hug, and Taylor melts, tucks his head into the crook of Ryan’s neck and just… breathes. His cologne smells like home; like clean sheets and late nights in Edmonton and -- 

And Taylor needs to back away before he does something even dumber than following Ryan into his room, like crying on him.

“Did you want to --” Ryan says after Taylor steps back, gestures to his room. “We could just hang out, watch a trashy movie or something?” 

This shouldn’t make Taylor’s heartbeat go all stupid, but it does. Still, Taylor nods, then Ryan does as he unlocks the door. 

Taylor tosses his jacket on the desk chair, kicks off his shoes, pulls on the pair of sweats that Ryan threw at him after he did the same. He’s the first to settle on the bed, but Ryan is quick to follow with his laptop in hand. 

Ryan turns on a movie, snuggles into Taylor’s side, and Taylor’s out like a light before he even realizes what movie is playing.

 

//

 

_ April 2016 _

 

It’s a strange arrangement, if Ryan would stop to think about it. The team is piled into the players lounge, a smattering of Oilers brass surrounding them, expensive drinks that nobody had to pay for pressed into their palms, and while they’re celebrating the end of an era, nobody’s really celebrating the end of the season.

It’s a bittersweet end to a beginning that was never so sweet to begin with. A win against a team just barely better than them -- which isn’t saying much, seeing as they’re at the bottom of the league, again --  is really just scraping the bottom of the barrel. With a sip of his drink, Ryan sighs, and can’t wait to be able to sleep off yet another heart wrenching season.

Across the room, Taylor is laughing, drink in hand and a genuine smile plastered on his face and Ryan thinks he’s beautiful. His eyes crinkle up at the corners, his cheeks turn this brilliant shade of pink, and Ryan knows that in this moment, he might be a little fucked. 

Ryan turns his gaze away when Taylor catches him looking, downs the rest of his drink before excusing himself and taking one last lap around the concourse. 

The thing about hockey is that arenas and rinks and stadiums all really start to blend together. They’re almost impossible to tell apart when you get down to the bottom of it. There’s always the spots where the puck bounces the wrong way off the stanchions, the echo of a soccer ball against the empty underbelly, the burn in the back of your calves as you scale the nosebleeds just one more time before gearing up. It’s all the same, until it’s not.

It won’t be the same next season, Ryan knows this for a fact. Faces will come and go -- hell, it might even be him -- but Ryan will always have Rexall. This arena loved him, raised him, hated him, and broke him. There won’t ever be another place like it. 

He takes a deep breath and heads down the darkened tunnel, dress shoes clicking just slightly against the blade-safe mats. The auxiliary lights are still on in the bowl, the faintest glow against the banners in the rafters, reflecting off the ice, and Ryan’s breath catches in his throat. 

_ One last time _ , Ryan thinks. One last time before it’s a new rink, new memories, new faces and maybe a new city. He steps over the bench, opens the gate, and steps forward onto the barely lit ice, tucking his hands in his pockets. 

It’s easy to walk across the ice, even if he’s a bit slow on his feet, cautious because not only is ice slippery, but it would be poetic justice if he ate shit out here on the wrong side of a few drinks. Nail, meet coffin.

Before he thinks better of it, Ryan sits down right at center ice, grabbing his knees as he rests his head on them. He lets his eyes flutter shut, and if he thinks about it hard enough, he can see his first rookie lap on this ice, his first goal, his first hat trick. He can see the stupid crinkly smile thrown at him, a gap-toothed one next to that in so many post-goal hugs, and he never wants to let that go. 

“Weird to think about, eh?” a voice behind him says, and Ryan’s heart skips a beat as he turns his head a little too quickly for the amount of alcohol he’s had. 

It’s Taylor, because of course it is. It makes sense. 

Ryan clears his throat before humming a sound of agreement, then thinks  _ fuck it _ as he lays back against the ice. The cold is welcoming, even through the layers of his clothes. 

Taylor walks over, lays next to him, tucks his hands behind his head and sighs. 

“Wish we didn’t have to leave,” Ryan says, the words puffing away from his lips in the faintest cloud of white. 

“It’d get pretty cold,” Taylor says with a laugh. “I’m not sure if you’d wanna sleep on this ice anyway.”

Ryan laughs easily at that, props himself up on his elbows and Taylor copies. “Yeah it always was pretty shitty, wasn’t it?” 

“The  _ worst, _ ” Taylor agreed, laughing himself. “The amount of edges I lost? Unreal.” 

“Don’t go blaming the ice because you can’t skate,” says Ryan, earning himself a kick in the shin. Taylor’s smiling when Ryan looks over at him, a soft easy thing that doesn’t make his eyes crinkle at the corners, but even so, Ryan is still fucked. 

It’s the longest three seconds of Ryan’s life, looking at Taylor in complete silence as they lay together on the logo, the only noise coming from the whirr of the lights above them. Taylor shifts a little closer, resting on the side of his hip and Ryan didn’t realize how close they were until he could feel the ghost of Taylor’s breath on his lips.

“Ry?” whispers Taylor, soft and inquisitive.

Ryan moves closer, leans in, lets his eyes flutter shut, then sighs. 

“Not here,” he says finally, sitting up fully. Taylor stays on his side, scrapes at the ice with his fingernail as Ryan pushes himself to his feet. 

“Shit, I’m--” Taylor starts, but Ryan holds his hand out and Taylor takes it, allows himself to be pulled to his feet. 

“Not here,” Ryan repeats, and there’s a flicker of confusion on Taylor’s face before it clicks, turns into that perfect crinkled smile that makes Ryan’s heart numb.

 

/

 

If someone would’ve come up to Ryan before he was drafted, before he ever pulled that logo onto his chest, and told him that he would have Taylor Hall in his bed, half naked and on top of him, kissing him within an inch of his life, he would’ve called them a damn liar. 

Taylor nips at his lower lip, enough of a sting to send Ryan’s head reeling, and it makes him glad that time travel doesn’t exist. 

“Tay,” Ryan sighs, breaths coming heavy as Taylor kisses his way down Ryan’s neck, settling into the dip right above his collarbone. “Taylor, wait.” 

Taylor stops, sits back against Ryan’s knees, concern in his eyes. It’s almost enough to distract Ryan from how kiss bruised Taylor’s perfect fucking lips are. 

Taylor asks, “Are you okay?” and Ryan smiles, settles his hands on Taylor’s hips and rubs placating circles into the soft skin. 

“I’m good,” Ryan assures him, scanning the expanse of Taylor’s chest, tucking his lower lip between his teeth. “I just-- Need a minute.” 

Taylor complies, falling to Ryan’s side and throwing an arm over his waist, skin warm and soft as they catch their breath. It’s nice, just laying like this, no obligation to go any further and only a slight sinking feeling that he’s fucked literally everything up. 

Well, maybe more than slight.

Ryan gives himself credit that he doesn’t start to panic right there, but maybe that credit is due to the whisky still lingering in his system. 

“This okay?” Taylor asks, nestling into Ryan’s side, moves like he wants to get under the covers.

Ryan nods, then croaks out a solid enough yes, and with a little bit of maneuvering, they're both snuggled under the duvet. This part is comfortable, familiar even. Ryan learned very quickly that being friends with Taylor Hall involved a lot of cuddling, little to no personal space, and a lot of shared beds. Right now, with Taylor doing his best impersonation of a god damn octopus, Ryan feels perfectly at ease.

That ease follows him as Taylor snuggles in impossibly closer, pressing a kiss to Ryan’s temple as his eyes slide shut, and then he’s asleep before he lets himself think too much. 

When Taylor’s gone the next morning, Ryan’s a little hurt, but enough of the warmth in his chest is still there that he doesn’t think about it too much.

 

//

 

_ October 2020 _

 

“You have to think logically, Taylor,” Doctor Rieber says, checks some things off on Taylor’s chart. “If you keep going like this--”

“I know,” Taylor says, jaw set, looking down at his knee. There are scars, bruises that never seem to go away, and now a dashed purple line where yet another surgery will create yet another scar. 

There’s a heavy silence in the air after, one that stretches far too long, but Taylor clears his throat to shatter it. 

“So I’m done,” he says, gives himself credit that his voice doesn’t waver. 

His doctor sighs, flips a page of his chart down, and looks at Taylor. 

“You’ve had a knee replacement already, scheduled for another, and the cartilage surrounding it is basically shredded,” his doctor explains, a clear walk around. “Before this, you were already in store for some pretty brutal arthritis, and more surgeries just push up the timeline. So, if you want to maintain any semblance of mobility…” 

Taylor nods, chews at his lower lip. It’s one thing knowing the inevitability what with that knee injury his first season with New Jersey, but it’s another thing to hear it, to have it confirmed. 

“Keep with your PT,” his doctor says, “and maybe -- depending on how the season goes -- we can get you out for a couple more games. But I’m talking ten,  _ tops _ .” 

_ If the Devils miss the playoffs,  _ Taylor hears. He remembers how that felt in Edmonton -- with his shoulder injury, with Nuge’s shoulder injury, with Connor’s collarbone. Even without injury, knowing that one bad hit, one wrong turn, could put you out, could make or break the team. It’s exhausting. 

“That doesn’t mean push it,” his doctor stresses, typing out something on his computer. “You’re on IR, starting today, retroactive to last week’s game in Montreal. The official notice just got sent to the front office.”

“Aye aye, Cap,” Taylor sighs, pushes himself off the table. Even landing the short distance from the table to the floor makes his knee twinge, and he has a fleeting, terrible thought that maybe the doctor is  _ actually  _ right. 

“You’ll get back on the ice, Taylor,” his doctor says, and it sounds enough like a promise where Taylor almost accepts it. 

“Sooner rather than later?”

“You’ll get back on the ice,” he repeats. 

 

//

 

_ November 2015 _

 

“Hallsy, where’s my  _ phone _ ,” Connor whines, and Taylor has to sigh, despite being on said phone with Connor’s mom right this very second. 

“I’ve got it, Davo, don’t worry about it,” Taylor says for the third time in as many minutes. “Sorry, Mrs. McDavid, I’m here.” 

On the other end, Connor’s mom sighs, and Taylor knows that sigh. It’s the ‘please, call me Kelly’ sigh, but Taylor can hear the hint of a smile in it. 

“He’s going to be insufferable until you give it back,” she says, and Taylor smiles a little at that. “I’m sure it hasn’t stopped buzzing in your ear since you’ve called” 

Like clockwork, the phone buzzes in Taylor’s hand. He doesn’t even pull it away from his ear to check what it is, because he’d bet a month of his salary that it’s one of the four hundred groupchats this kid is in. 

“Yeah, that’s for sure,” Taylor says, ruffling Connor’s hair. 

From there, it’s just hammering out the details of when Mrs. Mc --  _ Kelly’s  _ flight is coming in (tomorrow), when Connor’s surgery will be (the day after tomorrow), and who’s going to be around once Kelly leaves in a week (everyone and their mother). 

Connor gets his phone back soon enough, which helps stop the whining until -- 

“I wanna dog,” Connor says, eyes nearly shut all the way. “Tay, we should get a dog.”

“Yes, because that sounds like an incredible idea,” Taylor says, handing Connor his cup of water. He doesn’t tilt the straw away from Connor despite wanting to, because he’s a good fucking bro. 

“Glad you agree,” Connor says, then takes a long drink from his cup.

Taylor sets the cup on the side table, rolls his eyes because he knows that Connor is either too stoned to notice, or in too much pain to care. 

“Wait,” Connor says, eyes opening all the way. He shifts a little, winces before settling back into his pillow nest. “ _ Nuge _ has a dog.” 

Taylor quirks an eyebrow, trying to figure out what Connor’s on about. “...Okay?” 

“ _ So,” _ Connor says, long and drawn out and only a little slurred. “Nuge should come over. With the dog.” 

“Davo, it’s like,” Taylor checks his watch and -- “Holy shit, it’s like two in the morning.” 

Connor pouts. Like, honest-to-god lower lip stuck out kind of pout, and Taylor sighs. 

“I’ll call him,” Taylor says and Connor’s pout disappears, gets replaced with a soft smile. 

“You’re my favorite,” he says, lets his eyes flutter shut again. 

Taylor finds himself calling Ryan at two in the fucking morning, and he’s only a little shocked when Ryan picks up almost right away. 

“Everything good?” Ryan answers, no preamble. 

“Yeah, no, everything’s fine,” Taylor says, “except for the fact that I don’t have a dog.” 

It’s quiet for a beat, then Ryan says, “You know you’re supposed to be giving the meds to Davo, not taking them yourself, right?” 

“What? No, I know that,” says Taylor, rolling his eyes. “Listen, just -- Do you think you could come over?”

There’s some shuffling on the other end of the phone, a sigh, and then, “C’mere, Sophie-girl. We’ve got a house-call to make.” 

 

/ 

 

Connor is fast asleep in his pillow nest, next dosage of pills in the container by his water cup by the time Ryan lets himself in. The clicking of Sophie’s nails on the laminate precedes the shuffling of Ryan’s socked feet, but it’s still nice to have Sophie join him on the couch. 

“Hey,” Ryan says, finally making his way to the living room. “How’s Davo?”

Taylor cranes his neck back to see Ryan walking in, stretches his arms with a groan. “Asleep, for now. He’s gotta take more pills soon.” 

Ryan hums an acknowledgement before settling into the seat on the other side of Sophie, popping the recliner up. “You’re a good dad.” 

Taylor laughs once, a little too loud, and it startles Sophie. “Yeah, right. Dad at the ripe old age of twenty four.” 

“You’re the one that adopted the rookie,” Ryan says, tucks his feet under Sophie. “Still don’t know how management let that happen.” 

“Tell me about it. I don’t know how to raise a child,” Taylor says. “I don’t even know if I’m near any good school districts. What am I supposed to do when he’s old enough for kindergarten?” 

Ryan laughs, bright and happy, and Taylor can’t help but smile. It’s really not that funny, but it’s three in the morning and the laughter is needed, and Taylor’s glad that Ryan’s the one providing it. 

Sophie hops down, so Taylor takes the opportunity to get up and grab himself a bottle of water and Ryan a bottle of gatorade. When he gets back, Ryan’s got the recliner pulled for the loveseat, and it’s easy to just fit himself next to him, kick his feet up too. 

“I think Moneyball is on,” Taylor says, and Ryan wordlessly grabs the remote where Connor abandoned it on the couch. 

“You’re gonna fall asleep,” Ryan says, but he finds the channel anyway. 

Taylor scoffs. “That call out is completely warranted, but still rude.” 

Ryan shakes his head, but he lets Taylor throw his arm around him, so Taylor’s going to count it as a win. 

 

/

 

Taylor falls asleep during the movie, but so does Ryan, which momentarily confuses Taylor when there’s a nudge at the shoulder that Ryan isn’t nestled into. 

He blinks to clear the sleep from his eyes, squints up at the shadow in front of him.

“Hallsy,” Connor says, a little gruff and laced with sleep. “You have my pills.” 

Taylor groans, which wakes Ryan up. 

“Wha’?” 

“Before sunrise, he’s your son,” Taylor says into Ryan’s hair, earning a smack to the back of the head from Connor, and a sleepy laugh from Ryan. 

Taylor does, however, have Connor’s pills, and he fishes the bottle out of his pocket as Connor is suitably distracted by Sophie coming to greet him. 

“Come on, Soph,” Connor says, pats his thigh as he heads back to his room. “I’m keeping you.” 

Ryan tries to process what’s happening, but before he can protest, Connor and Sophie have disappeared down the hall.

“Guess she’s ours now,” Taylor says, pulls the throw blanket over them.

Ryan hums, throws his arm around Taylor’s waist. “Guess I’ve gotta stay then.” 

Taylor freezes. Taylor takes a deep breath. Taylor goes back to sleep.

  
  


//

 

_ December 2020 _

  
  


Ryan’s in a hotel somewhere on the west coast of the States. They were just in California, so it’s possible they still are, but this is the longest road trip the Oilers have all season. Maybe they’re in Seattle. That would be nice for Connor. 

Anyway, that’s not the point. 

The point is that Ryan and Connor just watched Taylor score a hat trick in the waning minutes of his game against the Canadiens, successfully topping his mid-season career point total. Not that Ryan knows that stat off the top of his head, or anything. 

“No mercy,” Connor says, flips his empty water bottle in his hand, catches it, flips it again. 

Ryan hums, downs the rest of his own water. “Devils need all the points they can get.”

“Sitting in a wild card spot, aren’t they?” Connor asks, and of course he’s right. 

December is a perfectly decent time to be talking playoff position, but it’s never too early in a hockey market like Edmonton. Connor and Ryan haven’t heard the end of how they fell from first to second after the Sharks leap-frogged them earlier last month. 

Regardless, it’s not looking too good for them. The Bruins are only a couple of points behind the Devils now, which is too close even for Ryan’s comfort. He can’t even imagine how Taylor feels about it. 

They watch the clock count down the remaining, painful seconds for the Habs before flipping the TV to a different channel, turning the volume almost all the way down.

“Think he’s done?” Connor asks, basically apropos of nothing. Then again, Ryan’s a little relieved he hasn’t been the only one thinking that. This is the tenth game Taylor has played in the last twenty, not very promising after his stint on IR at the beginning of the season. 

He shrugs, shuts his eyes as he sighs. “Maybe. Not if he can help it though.” 

“Stubborn asshole, isn’t he,” Connor says, laughs a little as he stands up. “Breakfast tomorrow? Stromer’s treat.”

Ah, so they are in Washington. “Which one?”

Connor smiles. “Both.” 

Ryan laughs a little, but agrees, and then Connor’s disappearing through the door joining their rooms. Drifting off is easy, the gentle hum of the TV lulling him to sleep.

 

_X_

 

He wakes up on a couch, in an apartment in Edmonton that’s long since been empty. There are twin holes in the wall, twin framed jerseys covering them, and he’s pretty sure there’s something burning in the kitchen.

Ryan sits up, scrubs at his eyes. “Hallsy?”

“Everything’s fine!” Taylor’s voice calls back, but he sounds especially Not Fine. Ryan gets up, pads over to the kitchen and sighs at Taylor, where he’s dousing a smoking pan with water. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Trying to fix it,” Taylor says, nonsensically.

“Fix what?” 

Taylor turns around, and he doesn’t have the pan in his hands anymore. 

Ryan blinks, realizes that they’re not even in the kitchen anymore, but instead they’re on the on trainer’s tables at the practice rink in Edmonton. Taylor’s hair is longer, flipping up and away from his forehead, the same way it did Ryan’s rookie year. 

“Everything,” Taylor says, and he’s got an ice pack wrapped around his knee in bright red athletic tape. 

Ryan looks at him and looks at him and looks at him until the pulsing buzz in his ears is too distracting to ignore anymore.

“You should get that,” Taylor says, sad smile on his face, nods to Ryan’s phone which is suddenly in his hand.

 

_X_

 

Ryan wakes up. He answers the phone.

“‘Lo?” 

“Shit, timezones,” Taylor snickers, then there’s a crash, followed by some swearing. “Hey, Nugget.”

Ryan pushes himself up and against the headboard, scrubs a hand over his face. 

“Hey, Hall Pass.” 

On the other end, Taylor laughs, easy. “Nobody’s called me that in a while.” 

“So many missed opportunities,” Ryan says, smiling a little himself. “Sweet hatty today.”

“Saw that?” Taylor asks, and Ryan can almost hear the smug grin on his face.

“Davo and I had some down time. Got to Seattle a day early.” 

Taylor hums, and then it’s quiet for a bit. Long enough for Ryan to glance over at his alarm clock and only be a little shocked at the angry red numbers screaming that it’s an ungodly hour, even on the east coast. 

“Tay, you know it’s like two am there, right?” Ryan asks, genuinely unsure if Taylor  _ does  _ know that. 

“Mhmm,” Taylor hums, muffled by what Ryan assumes is a replacement tumbler for the one he just broke. It’s got Woodford in it, if Ryan knows anything about Taylor Hall.

He knows a thing or two, even now.

“What’s going--” 

“I’m done, Ry,” Taylor says, small and practiced, but still like it’s the first time he’s said it to another human being.

Ryan’s fully awake now.

“Taylor--”

“All that time on IR, and there was another surgery,” he hears Taylor say behind shaking breaths. “Doc might kill me if I even try to step foot on the ice.” 

Ryan didn’t know there was another surgery. He didn’t know it got this bad. He didn’t know Taylor has been close enough to deciding this. 

“You there?” Taylor says, real concern in his tone.

“Yeah, no, I’m--” Ryan rushes to say, scrubs at his face again. “Are you sure?” 

There’s a rush of air that Ryan is sure was supposed to be a dejected laugh. “No. But the shredded cartilage in my knee is.” 

“Fuck,” Ryan breathes, chest tight. 

“Yeah,” Taylor sighs.

“I’m so sorry, Tay,” Ryan says, because he is. Because they were supposed to be playing together, they were supposed to win a cup together, they were supposed to save Edmonton and now--

“Me, too,” Taylor says, and then the line goes dead.

 

//

 

_ June 2021 _

 

They aren’t supposed to be here. At the end of April, they didn’t even believe that they  _ deserved  _ to be here, seeded at the bottom of the bracket. Even the Coyotes were seeded above them, and while that should make sense with their draft lottery win last season, it didn’t offer any kind of comfort.

Things got a little better when they made quick work of them in the first round, then even better with their down-3-to-1 comeback against the Stars, and then again when they took Seattle to seven despite them leading the West for most of the season. It’s been a whirlwind of emotions and near losses and it’s -- It’s a lot. 

Anyway, that’s not the point. The point is that the Edmonton Oilers are one win away from the fucking Stanley Cup, and Ryan cannot breathe. 

He’s skating around idly near the bench, waiting for the puck to drop after a TV timeout, and he can’t help but look around at the Rogers Place crowd. They’ve been loud and rambunctious since puck drop -- since the playoffs started, even -- and Ryan can feel their energy thrumming in his veins, hammering away at his chest. 

Behind the glass directly behind the bench, there’s a group of orange sweaters with numbers that haven’t touched Edmonton ice together in far too long. 

Four. Ninety-three. Fourteen.

Ryan swallows the lump in his throat, takes a deep breath, and lines up for the faceoff.

Set, drop, skate. 

It’s a quick win against the Bruin’s center -- Ryan couldn’t even tell you which one, what with their revolving door of injuries and call ups -- and then the play is in motion, Stromer and Yammer flying into the offensive zone. 

In a way, it’s like a twenty minute penalty kill. They’re only down by one, and they’ve been able to come back from bigger deficits this season -- these playoffs even -- so they’re all buzzing pretty nicely. 

He’s catching his breath when he takes a drink out of the bottle in front of him. It’s not until he sets it back down does he see that the number it’s marked with was definitely not ninety-three, but four, and he wonders what kind of game that life is playing with him right now. 

He scans the bench and takes in the thrum of energy that’s charging down it. Kailer and his ever-bouncing knee; Stromer and the way he can’t stop fidgeting; Leon and Connor with their heads tucked together, planning their way around every play. 

It’s different from the years of dejection and anger and melancholy that he felt, even with linemates he clicked with more consistently. Even so, he can’t stop himself from looking for a patchy beard and gap teeth, or a constantly-chattering mouth with bright blue eyes. 

He shakes the thought away with a little help from the double-minor being called against Boston, and it’s Jesse that’s coming back to the bench with a mouth full of blood and a grin on his face. 

“PP one! You’re out!” Coach calls, and Ryan finds the strength in his legs to push himself up and over the boards. 

Connor skates over as they get in position, whacks him on the shinpads. “Got it?” 

“Yeah,” Ryan says, adjusts his helmet. “Just get it to me.” 

Connor nods, grins quick and easy.

It feels like a dream, the way the puck goes straight from Connor’s tape to Ryan’s, from Ryan’s tape to the back of the net and there it is -- tie game, three-to-three. 

He can’t even hear himself screaming over the eruption of the crowd, or over Connor and Larss screaming in his ear, thumping him on the helmet. He skates down the line, bumping fists with everyone and that’s when it gets real. 

They’re still on the power play, still have a chance to finish this, and as Ryan’s on the bench with his cheeks aching from smiling so hard, he knows that this is the team he was meant to be here with.

Set, drop, skate. 

There’s three minutes left in the game, just over a minute left of the man-advantage, and Ryan’s already got a good feeling about Leon taking this faceoff. He’s got that gleam in his eye -- the hard determination that just says ‘try me, I dare you’ -- and he wins it quick and easy, sends it right to Kailer as Stromer heads to the net. 

Ryan stands up, leans over the boards, cranes his neck to see the play unfold. Kailer passes it to Drai, who touchpasses it back. Kailer fakes, walks the puck in a little, snaps a wrister from close range that  _ should _ go a little wide but then Stromer is there, stick down and then it’s in.

It’s in. It actually went in, they’re  _ ahead _ . 

The bench, the crowd, the guys on the ice all go wild, almost so loud that the goal horn is nothing but a gentle hum under the noise. 

Two minutes left.

A puck goes over the glass by fault of nobody. 

Set, drop, skate. 

One minute. 

McAvoy’s shot rings off the post.

Set, drop, skate. 

Thirty, twenty, ten seconds and then -- 

Well, then it’s a blur. 

 

/ 

 

There’s champagne in his eyes and ringing in his ears, tears streaming down his face and the fucking Conn Smythe trophy is in his stall. He just drank Moulson’s out of the Stanley fucking Cup and he’s on top of the world. Connor and Leon are glued to each other’s side, tears in their eyes as the stand there soaked in beer and sweat and their beards are entirely out of control. 

They’re a bit of a mess, Ryan thinks, but he catches a glimpse of himself in the back of a photo a journalist is showing him, and well -- they’re all kind of a mess right now. He’s sure that just this once, media will give them a break. 

Maybe. 

He finishes getting out of his gear, throws on basketball shorts and a t-shirt that identifies him as a fucking Stanley Cup Champion and heads out into the hallway, cellphone in hand. 

The amount of notifications coming in is overwhelming, every little sound preventing him from dialing the number at his fingertips. He gets it eventually, presses the call button and listens as it rings, four times. 

“Hey there, Conn Smythe.”

Ryan smiles, tears gathering in his eyes. “Hey, Hall Pass.” 

 

//

 

_ July 2021 _

 

It’s high noon on a sunny Thursday when Taylor realizes that ‘Stanley Cup Champion’ looks good on Ryan. 

They’re lounging on the grass near the water, the perfect amount of breeze blowing through the trees and if Taylor could exist in this moment forever, he probably would. 

“I’ve been thinking,” Ryan says, takes a sip from the bottle he had resting next to him. 

Taylor scoffs. “That’s dangerous.” 

“Fuck off,” Ryan says, ripping a handful of grass from the ground and tossing it at Taylor. 

They both laugh as Taylor squirms to brush it off of his leg before it ends up down his shorts like the last time Ryan did this. There was grass where grass should  _ never  _ be. Taylor smiles at the memory -- albeit not entirely pleasant -- and takes drink of his own beer.

“Come back to Edmonton with me,” says Ryan, and Taylor chokes. 

“Sorry, what?” Taylor sputters, tears gathering in his eyes as he coughs. “Are you--” 

“Listen, I know it’s random, but hear me out,” Ryan defends, and his face is earnest enough where Taylor can’t help but comply. “You’re happier there, believe it or not. Maybe you just need time to lay low in a place you’re comfortable in.” 

Taylor sighs, scratches at the nape of his neck. “I’m not sure if ‘laying low’ is possible for me, especially in Edmonton.” 

Ryan nods, mostly to himself, like he knew that would be Taylor’s answer. 

“I’ve got a spare room that has your name on it,” Ryan says. It’s fun to see him push the envelope in that gentle way of his -- not really pushing, but just gently nudging. “Just miss having your ugly mug around.” 

In the silence that follows, Taylor lets himself think about it, about being back in Edmonton. It’s easy to remember living there, just like how it’s easy to remember being in love. That’s only happened to Taylor a handful of times, but each time has involved that goddamn city, and everything it helped him achieve.    


He still wants to be bitter, wants to write off Edmonton all together, but he can’t. He's got a poorly hung framed jersey and a stack of taped-up pucks that prove he wasn’t just a lovesick teenager, but that at one point, Edmonton loved him back.  

Taylor’s never been the type to go back to his exes, but -- 

“I’ll think about it,” he settles on. It’s a promise, dismissal, and avoidance wrapped up into one neat little package. 

“Okay,” Ryan says, flashing Taylor a quick grin. “Come on, let’s start the grill.” 

 

/

 

Taylor thinks about it on his drive home from Ryan’s lake house, then again two weeks later, and then  _ again _ a week after that. He wants to be surprised at how easily they still fit together, how well they coexisted as Taylor’s three day trip turned to three weeks. It’s easy, and it’s familiar, and it’s the closest thing he’s felt to home since he left Edmonton.

Maybe it says something that he’s not surprised. Maybe, in some ass backwards way, this was meant to happen. 

He’s not surprised at all when a month after Ryan’s offer, he pulls his largest suitcase out and starts throwing clothes into it. 

It’s nearly packed full, along with his various assortment of toiletries, chargers, and other necessities when he takes a break. 

 

**Taylor || 12:45pm**

that offer still stand? 

 

**The Nuge || 12:50pm**

???

yeah dude of course

 

**Taylor || 12:52pm**

I’ll see you soon, then 

 

//

 

_ September 2021 _

 

“So the guy putting the new washer in is coming at four, right?” 

Ryan’s doing up the last few details of his game day suit, fumbling with the knot of his tie, frustrated finger sliding over silk as it keeps slipping out of place.

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure,” he says, trying the tie one more time. Thirtieth time must be the charm, because it finally cooperates and slides into it’s knot with barely any hassle. “You’ll be back from PT, right?” 

In the general direction of Ryan’s bed, Taylor grunts some kind of confirmation, tossing a tennis ball up toward the ceiling, letting it fall back into his hand before doing it again. 

“Hypothetically. I can try to make it back in time.” 

Ryan hums, makes his way from . “Massage day?” 

Toss, bump, catch. “Unfortunately.” 

“What’s tomorrow look like for you?” Ryan asks, poking his head out from the ensuite. “Tuesdays are recovery?” 

Taylor sits up, props himself on his elbows, and Ryan can tell by the raised eyebrows that Taylor’s surprised he remembered that. Still, Taylor nods, pushing himself completely up to sit at the edge of Ryan’s bed. 

“Yeah, why?” 

Ryan grins, a little bashful and a lot guilty. “The boys wanna get dinner.” 

“Which boys? There are lots of boys. Could be anyone, really.” 

Ryan tosses the cap of his hair gel through the open door and hopefully somewhere near Taylor. Considering the indignant noise that came from Taylor, he’s willing to bet he at least caught him off guard.

“Davo, Drai, maybe Pools,” Ryan says, coming out of the ensuite and leaning against the door. Taylor’s rolling the tennis ball around his bad knee now, an easy pressure under his palm. “Davo misses you.” 

“He saw me at Biosteel last month,” Taylor says, rolling his eyes a little before gently throwing the ball to Ryan. “These needy rookies, I tell ya.” 

“He’s twenty-three,” says Ryan, tossing the ball from one hand to the other. 

“You’re still a rookie to me,” says Taylor, pushing himself to his feet as they make their way to the living room.

Ryan rolls his eyes, checks his watch. He better get going if he’s going to beat traffic. “Anyway, do you wanna go with?”

Something like pain flashes across Taylor’s face, and Ryan knows it’s not from his knee. No, this kind of pain is a little further than skin deep. He corrects it pretty quick, settles on one of his more happy-neutral media faces.

“Raincheck?”

Ryan nods, quick and understanding. “Of course. You’re always welcome, no invite needed.” 

Taylor manages a small smile at that. “Thanks, Nugget.” 

 

/

 

He’s balancing on one leg, tossing a medicine ball at the wall when the physical therapist -- Matt, he’s pretty sure -- asks, “So what made you come back?” 

He catches the ball -- nearly losing his balance in the process -- and shrugs.

“Needed a change of scenery, I guess,” Taylor says, tosses the ball and catches it again before switching legs. 

Matt quirks an eyebrow. “Right. So you came back to Edmonton, because that makes perfect sense.”

“It did to me,” Taylor says, and it’s taken a bit to realize that, but he means it. “Family, friends, all that nonsense.” 

“Well, welcome home,” Matt says. “Get your ass on the bike.” 

 

/

 

Taylor comes home from therapy one day to Connor and Leon sitting on the couch, some kind of noise being made in the kitchen by who Taylor hopes is just Ryan. 

“Davo and Drai are here,” Ryan calls, and Taylor laughs a little as he hangs his coat up. 

“Gathered that, thanks,” Taylor calls back as he kicks off his shoes. “Still a bunch of moochers, I see.” 

Connor snorts, stands to hug Taylor and Leon follows. “Hey, loser.” 

“Hey, rook,” Taylor says, smiling as he ruffles Connor’s hair before hugging Leon.

“We heard you were back and just really wanted some of the infamous Taylor Hall Dinner Special,” Leon says as he’s sitting back down. “Nuge said you’ve already killed a pan, though.” 

“That wasn’t even my  _ fault! _ ” Taylor says indignantly, pitched loud enough for Ryan to hear him as he makes his own way to the kitchen. “Like he can do any better.” 

“He can and he is,” says Ryan, leaning down to check on whatever’s in the oven that smells so good. “Sorry, they came by out of nowhere. I meant to text you but--” 

Taylor shrugs, grabs a gatorade from the fridge. “I don’t mind. It’s not like Chara’s sitting on our couch.” 

Ryan makes a face and Taylor can’t help but laugh.

“Need me to help with anything?” Taylor asks, looking at the array of things on the counter.

Ryan looks like he’s about to say something when Leon yells, “Hallsy! Come get your ass kicked in chel!” 

“Yeah, I need you to make sure they don’t break our coffee table,” Ryan says. “Again.” 

Taylor laughs, salutes and says, “you got it boss.” before disappearing into the living room.

 

//

 

_ October 2021 _

 

Taylor doesn’t slam the door behind him, but he’s not very kind in the way he closes it, either. The fact that he cringes when it closes is probably reason enough for Ryan to look up from his book.

“What’d the door ever do to you?” Ryan says as soon as Taylor kicks his shoes off. The action in itself makes Taylor wince, the angle just wrong enough to send a twinge of pain through his knee after over an hour of physical therapy. 

“Not in the mood,” Taylor says, drops his bag a little heavier than he probably should. 

“Wow, alright,” Ryan says, furrows his eyebrows in that dumb way that he does whenever he’s worried about Taylor. 

Taylor should know. He’s been on the receiving end of that look a lot over the last couple of weeks. 

“What,” Taylor says, not a question, shaking his head a little.

Ryan scrubs a hand over his face, a calculated and concentrated effort of keeping his cool. “Bad day at PT?” 

Taylor laughs, just once, no humor in it at all. “Sure.” 

Ryan nods, raises his eyebrows as he does, then turns back to his book. “Shake in the fridge if you want it. I’m going to dinner with the boys later if you want to come.” 

Taylor doesn’t want to come. He never wants to come, especially not today where he was basically told that if he doesn’t start taking better care of his body, he’ll have to hobble around with a cane like a decrepit old man. So, no, he  _ doesn’t  _ want to go to dinner with all of his still able-bodied ex-teammates. 

He doesn’t say any of this, just goes to the kitchen and grabs the shake from the fridge, downs half of it in one go, even though it’s strawberry. 

“I’ll pass,” Taylor says after a minute or five, when he’s finally made his way into the living room. “Not feeling it.” 

“When are you ever,” Ryan says, turns a page of his book a little aggressively. 

Taylor stops mid-drink and slowly lowers the bottle from his lips.

“What the fuck is  _ that _ supposed to mean?” 

“First of all, cut the attitude,” Ryan says, fully closing his book now, getting up and heading toward the kitchen, empty glass in hand. “I don’t know what’s been up with you lately, but it’s really getting old.” 

Taylor just blinks, mouth hanging open, speechless for once in his life. That throws Ryan for a second, not enough for anyone but Taylor to notice.

Taylor always notices. 

He sighs, guilt creeping into the parts of his chest that light never seems to reach. Sure, he’s been in a mood, but that doesn’t mean he has to be a dick.

“Ry, I didn’t--” 

Ryan laughs, sharp and angry as he returns to the living room. “You’ve done nothing but mope for the past two weeks and I’m honestly a little sick of it. You’ve been miserable, but haven’t been doing anything to change that.”

Taylor doesn’t necessarily see red, but it’s a near thing. 

“Oh, please, Ryan,” he says, standing a little too quickly, his knee screaming at the change in position, “tell me what I’m supposed to do.” 

“Anything!” Ryan says, voice about as raised as Taylor has ever heard it. “You’re a fucking Stanley Cup winning hockey player--” 

“Not anymore--”

“Oh, would you cut the fucking  _ pity party _ ,” Ryan says, runs a hand through his hair. “You’re retired, Taylor, not fucking  _ dead _ .” 

“Right, pity party,” Taylor says, nodding. “Remember what it was like your rookie year to have to sit with that shoulder injury?”

Ryan blinks, obviously thrown for a loop. “What does that have to--”

“This?” Taylor barrels on, “this is a hundred times worse than that. I’m  _ done _ , Ryan. Forever. So fucking forgive me if I’m a little out of it.” 

“There’s more than hockey,” Ryan says, like he believes it, and maybe he does. To Taylor, that’s not entirely true. “It isn’t everything. There’s other things, there’s  _ people _ , you can’t--”

Taylor snorts, tucks his hands in his pockets just for something to do. “Easy for you to say when you’re still fucking playing.” 

It’s quiet then, for a ten seconds that feels like ten years, and Taylor can feel himself aging with it. 

“It’s been a year, Taylor,” Ryan says. 

Taylor blinks, scratches at the hinge of his jaw and nods a little. “You know what? Fuck you.”

“I didn’t--”

“No,” Taylor says, firm and unyielding. “This doesn’t just go away because it’s been a year. I lost  _ everything,  _ Ryan. I can’t-- You can’t expect me not to be upset about it. Fuck that.”

“Take a walk,” Ryan says, jaw set, arms crossed. 

Taylor stops, just stares at Ryan until the silence grows to be too heavy. 

He wants to scream, wants to fight, wants to sleep for ten years. Instead he nods, makes his way toward the door and grabs his car keys.

“Where are you going,” Ryan says, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

Taylor looks at him, waits, and huffs a sigh as he turns the door handle. “I’m taking a walk.” 

“It’s, like, five degrees outside,” Ryan says, walking away. “Take a fucking jacket.” 

“There’s heat in the car,” Taylor says, and absolutely does not slam the door, no matter how badly he wants to.

 

/

 

Taylor’s shivering through every turn he takes down once familiar roads, and he’d like to believe it’s the cold, but the chill feels like more than just the weather. 

“Come  _ on _ ,” he whines, adjusting the fan speed on the heat. “Fucking turn on already.”

He keeps driving, and driving, and driving until his fingertips are numb and he can’t help but notice that this drive seems familiar. Ryan’s moved since Taylor lived here last, so it can’t be from late drives home from his place, so it has to be something else. A landmark, or a billboard, or --

The ice cream shop. 

That’s their ice cream shop, which means he’s only down the block from -- 

Taylor turns a corner, then another, then pulls over in front of a building. He looks out his window at a sight familiar from early morning coffee and nights spent playing chel, when he was younger and dumber and didn’t know how to properly hang things on walls.

It’s been a long time since he and Jordan stepped foot in this place. He wonders if the holes are still in the walls. 

Taylor sighs, scrubs at his face and picks his phone from the cup holder, swiping it open just for something to do with his hands. His phone barely registers the touch because the tips of his fingers are so cold.

It takes him a while to realize exactly where his keystrokes were taking him, but as soon as he processes the contact he pulled up, his phone starts buzzing in his hand and with it pops up a picture he’s missed seeing. 

Probably against his his better judgement, Taylor answers the phone.

“Hello?”

Jordan’s quiet when he says, “Hey, bud. What’s up?” The baby is probably asleep, and Taylor wonders what kind of freaky leftover liney mind voodoo they have going on that made Jordan call. 

Taylor sighs.“Not much. Just out for a drive,” he says, then looks up and sees the faint glow of the lights lining their ice cream shop. “Was thinking about stopping at Blue’s Java.” 

Jordan makes an inquisitive sound, and then it’s quiet for a second, just the soft sound of whatever Taylor has playing on the radio and the slight crackle of Jordan’s breath in the phone. 

“Yeah? What were you thinking about getting?” Jordan says, and then Taylor gets it. 

Here’s the thing. Taylor isn’t dumb. A little less observant than the average bear, sure, but not enough so to miss the massive hint that Jordan already has a clue as to what’s going on. He takes a deep breath, exhales in one puff of white as he tugs his toque over his ears. 

Even then, Taylor lets it happen. “Not sure. Strawberry cheesecake is probably out of season. I’ll probably just get something boring like moose tracks.” 

“Wasn’t boring when your spoon would always fall in my dish,” Jordan says, a little more relaxed than he was when Taylor first answered. “What’s Ryan getting?” 

Taylor freezes, stammers a bit before sighing. 

“Uh, he’s not-- He’s at home,” he says, and then starts to wonder when he started to think of Ryan’s house as home. He wonders if he ever stopped thinking of Edmonton as home.

Jordan hums, an obvious noise that says ‘I already knew this,’ and Taylor is only a little annoyed. 

“Home, huh?” 

“That’s--” Taylor starts, furrows his eyebrows. “Yeah, home,” he says. “I live there, that makes it home doesn't it?” 

“If you want it to be,” Jordan says, and he doesn’t sound condescending or judgemental or anything like that. “It’s nice that that can be home for you.” 

Taylor wipes some of the fog away from the window, enough to peek through the clear bit of glass at the apartment they once shared. “Yeah.” 

“What’s  _ really _ up, Taylor?” 

“Nothing’s up--” 

“Ryan called me after you left,” Jordan interrupts, and Taylor nods, lets his eyes close. “He’s worried he pushed you too far.” 

Taylor laughs, a little bitter and a little sad. “He did.” 

Jordan hums. “And I see you handled it  _ really _ well.” 

There’s a sound on Jordan’s end of the phone, followed by a gentle shushing. Taylor smiles a little at how Jordan is a  _ real  _ dad now, but he’s still dealing with his kids back in Edmonton. Things have really come full circle. 

“Look, Hallsy,” Jordan says after another minute, concise and directly to the point. “You’ve gotta let people help you. I know coming back to Edmonton was hard. You all but sold your soul to that fucking place.”

The thing is that he knows Jordan is right. A bitter laugh escapes his throat, and he didn’t realize there were tears gathering in his eyes until they roll hot and angry down his cheeks. 

“I feel like I lost everything,” Taylor says, swallows around the lump in his throat. “Ryan made it pretty evident that I haven’t, but it still feels like it.” 

Jordan hums in agreement. “He’s just worried. Can’t say he’s the only one.” 

“I’m working on it,” says Taylor and there’s something about this moment, sitting in his car, freezing his ass off that makes him believe himself. “Myself, I mean. It’s tough, on me and on--”  _ Ryan,  _ he doesn’t say. 

“Ryan,” Jordan says for him, and Taylor sighs, a wordless agreement. 

“You love him, Taylor” Jordan says, easy as anything. “You love him, and you’re just starting to figure it out, and you’re terrified.”

That… certainly is something, isn’t it?

“Fuck,” Taylor breathes, throws his head to the steering wheel, and promptly honks the horn in the process.

On the other end of the phone, Jordan laughs, loud and bright and Taylor can’t even be mad about it. He’s pretty sure Jordan woke the baby up in the process, so, karma. 

Jordan’s laughter subsides and then an easy quiet washes over Taylor, nothing but the hum of the heat finally kicking in. 

“Go home, Hallsy,” Jordan says, gentle but still decided. “Use your words.”

“Yeah, okay,” Taylor sighs, picks his head up and throws the car in drive.

“You’ll be fine,” Jordan says, and for the first time in a while, Taylor believes it.

 

/

 

Taylor gets home an hour later, a pint of apology mint chocolate chip ice cream in hand, but there’s no sign of Ryan and a note on the table when he walks into the kitchen.

 

_ Went to dinner with the guys. I’m sorry that I took it too far. We’ll talk when I get home. _

_ x Ry _

 

It says something about how worried Taylor was that the flood of relief in his chest makes him dizzy. The last thing he wants is for Ryan to be upset, because all he’s been trying to do this entire time was help, and Taylor was too busy being a martyr for his own cause to realize. 

He camps out on the couch, let’s Sophie curl up next to him and runs a hand over her tummy as she rolls onto her back. 

“Makes sense, doesn’t it,” he says to her. “I wouldn’t move back to Edmonton for just anyone.”

Sophie perks her head up, tongue lolling out of her mouth and Taylor smiles. 

“Yeah, you’re right. It was totally for you.” 

Ryan still isn’t back an hour later when Taylor finally calls it quits and heads to bed, Sophie at his heels.

 

/

 

“Wake up, dog thief.” 

Taylor sits up, blinking the sleep from his eyes. There’s a bright line of light coming through the crack in the door, only partially blocked by Ryan standing in the doorway. Taylor flips on his light and Sophie burrows into the blankets even more. 

“She just loves me,” Taylor says, too disoriented for a proper comeback. “You okay?” 

“Was gonna ask you the same thing,” Ryan says, picking at the side of his thumbnail like he always does when he’s nervous. “Can I come in?” 

Taylor nods and shifts over, freeing up a space on the bed that Ryan fills easily. He crosses his legs, scratching behind Sophie’s ears. 

Ryan sighs, leaning against the headboard, and Taylor slinks down under his covers again. He can’t help but notice that Ryan’s already in sweats, so he must’ve been back for a while before he came in here.

Taylor wonders how long he was deciding on whether or not he should come in at all. 

“I’m really sorry,” Ryan says, wiggles down under the covers, too, and Taylor tries to keep his breathing even. “I said some shitty things and you didn’t deserve to--” 

“Hey, wait,” Taylor interrupts, “I did deserve that. You were right.” 

Ryan looks away, looks down at Sophie where she’s just out of reach and Taylor knows he’s floundering for something to do with his hands. “Doesn’t make it any less shitty.” 

“You’re right,” Taylor says, tucking his arm under his pillow, “but I accept your apology. You were rightfully upset. I’m sorry I stormed out like that.”

“No, I get it,” Ryan says, tucks one of his hands under the pillow, the other coming up to pick at the corner of the pillowcase. “It’s okay.” 

It’s quiet for a few seconds, but it’s an easier silence, one that Taylor could probably drift off during.

Instead, he says, “I called Londonderry Arena today.” 

Ryan’s head snaps up, eyes a little wide. “Like, the Peewee rink?”  

Taylor nods. “Turns out I used to play with one of the coaches there. Said they could use the help.” 

“Tay, that’s--” Ryan starts, propping himself up on his elbow. “That’s awesome.” 

“Yeah,” Taylor says, smiling a little to himself. “It is.”   
  


//

 

_ December 2021 _

 

Ryan comes home after the east coast road trip to the smell of something absolutely amazing and Christmas songs playing over the bluetooth speakers. He closes the door softly, toes off his shoes and dumps his bag by the shoe rack before padding toward the kitchen, careful not to make too much noise. 

There’s a smattering of noises coming from the kitchen that give Ryan reason to believe that not only is Taylor baking, but he’s humming along to the radio as he does so. When makes it to the kitchen, that’s exactly what he finds.

Taylor’s in an apron, sifting flour into a mixing bowl that Ryan didn’t even know they had. He’s got a recipe open on his iPad where it’s situated on a shelf in the cabinet directly in front of him, and he’s scrolling through it when Ryan clears his throat, gets Taylor’s attention. 

“You’ve been watching too much Great British Baking Show,” Ryan says as he walks into the kitchen, observing the rack of cookies cooling on the island. He reaches out to grab one, but gets his hand smacked away.

“Those are for the Peewee holiday party,” Taylor scolds. “And I wouldn’t have gotten hooked on that show if it wasn’t for you, so don’t even.” 

Ryan pouts, debates the merits of stealing a cookie anyway, when Taylor sighs, turning back to his mixing bowl. 

“You get some, too,” he says, and Ryan definitely does  _ not  _ fist pump. “The Tupperware next to the stove is ours.”

Ryan’s over there before Taylor even finishes his sentence, popping the lid off and taking a cookie out. 

“Are these -- “

“Oatmeal peanut butter,” Taylor finishes, measures out enough baking powder for his recipe before dumping it in the bowl. “Enough protein to kill someone, agave instead of sugar. Finished them just as you texted me saying you had landed, so they might still be warm.”

Ryan hums, picking up a cookie from the box and taking a bite. They  _ are  _ still warm, and so fucking good. “Have I mentioned that having you live here was the best idea I’ve ever had?” 

Taylor laughs at that, light and easy, but like there’s also more to it. “There’s a shake in the fridge for you, and I think your vitamins are somewhere in that mess,” he says, gesturing to the kitchen table that is, indeed, a mess. 

“You didn’t have to do that,” Ryan says, like he always does, because Taylor really doesn’t. 

Taylor shrugs, pours some milk into the bowl, folds the ingredients together with a rubber spatula. “I wanted to. Gives me something to do.”

Ryan tenses a little, the ghost of their argument weeks ago still haunting him. Taylor doesn’t pick up on it, or if he does, he doesn’t comment. 

Clearing his throat, Ryan opens the fridge and grabs the protein shake from it, shaking it a couple times before flipping the cap open and taking a drink. Taylor’s fractioning dough out onto a baking sheet, and there’s flour on the side of his neck, some even in his hair. 

“You’re a mess,” Ryan says, leaning against the counter Taylor’s working at. He reaches up and brushes a bit of flour of Taylor’s shoulder and Taylor scrunches his face, squirming away. 

“Leave me alone, I’m trying to win favorite coach,” he says, opening the oven up and sliding the tray of dough balls into it. 

Ryan rolls his eyes. “Didn’t you say the other coach makes them do suicides for the first ten minutes of practice?” 

“Mhmm.”

“Yeah, you don’t have to try and win favorite,” Ryan says, and this time, he actually manages to snag a cookie from the cooling rack. 

 

/

 

Ryan starts on the dishes while the cookies are in the ove, and Taylor is -- Well, he’s singing Santa Baby, very, very badly, with bad dance moves to match. 

“You’re ridiculous,” says Ryan, sets another dish in the rack as Taylor turns up the music.

Taylor’s smiling dancing in a stupid way that shouldn’t be attractive, but the dopey grin on his face and the way he’s shaking his shoulders -- Ryan can’t help but smile. He tries to tamp down the heart eyes, because he can’t do that, not right now not while Taylor’s -- 

Anyway, he’s got to get himself together. It’s one thing to invite the guy he’s practically in love with to live with him, but it’s another to let things like this happen when he’s not sure what’s going on between them. They live together, but they don’t talk about the time that they almost fell together and then quickly fell apart --  in more ways than one. 

“You love it,” Taylor says, tossing a towel over Ryan’s shoulder. 

Ryan sighs. That’s the problem. 

He takes the towel from his shoulder and dries his hands off, moves to clean off some of the counter but Taylor steps in front of him.

“Come on, Nugget,” he says, grabs at Ryan’s wrists and pulls him away from the counter. 

Ryan goes, lets himself be pulled and moved around the kitchen, linking his fingers with Taylor’s as he gets goaded into whatever this is that Taylor’s calling dancing. 

It’s comfortable, how they’re spinning around the kitchen slowly, the smell of cookies in the air and the Christmas music playing in the background. It’s almost too comfortable, too domestic, but Ryan’s too happy to care. If this is all he gets, then he’ll take it.  

The song changes and they slow down with it, and Ryan finally actually looks at Taylor. He’s still got flour in his hair, and it’s easy to reach up and brush it away. It’s only then that he realizes just how close they really are, how Taylor’s hand has moved to his hip.

“Is this… Can I --” Taylor says, eyes searching Ryan’s face for something that will tell him to stop. 

He’s not going to find it. 

Ryan answers his unfinished question by leaning forward, eyes fluttering shut as he fits his lips to Taylor’s, melting into him. Taylor makes a noise of surprise, but gets with the program after a minute and kisses Ryan back, soft and insistent, like he’s trying to savor every moment.

Ryan’s got something pressing into his lower back, he can barely stop smiling long enough to kiss Taylor back, but it’s perfect. It’s perfect because it’s them, and this was the way it was meant to be. 

When they break for air, Taylor’s smiling in the way that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners, lips pressed into Ryan’s forehead, and Ryan can’t help but smile, too. 

“Are we done pretending there isn’t something here?” Ryan says into Taylor’s collarbone, and he feels Taylor laugh more than he hears it. 

“I am if you are,” Taylor says, pushing away just a little. “I’m pretty gone on you.” 

Ryan laughs, a little breathy, and tilts his head enough to kiss Taylor just once. 

“I guess I’ll keep you around.” 

Getting smacked with a handful of flour is entirely worth it. 

 

// 

 

_ May 2022 _

 

They’re in Long Island, and Taylor loves the aspect of anonymity he can have as he and Ryan walk down the street. Nobody is stopping them, nobody is sneaking a picture of them to sell to Deadspin, it’s just -- They’re allowed to exist. They could get engaged right on this sidewalk and nobody would even bat an eyelash. 

Being in an arena with no obligation to play is one of the strangest feelings Taylor has ever felt. The energy is still there, thrumming in his veins and eating him up on the inside. Especially after that kid’s dirty hit on Nico earlier this season, there’s nothing more that Taylor wants than for Jordan and his Islanders to absolutely crush the Jets.

Except to watch it with Ryan, but he gets to do that anyway. 

They flash their ticket and a couple of different badges and get directed up to the family suite. Lauren’s camped out with Tara in tow, all coos and smiles as she sees Taylor and Ryan walk in. 

There are seats saved for them, tucked conveniently away from the view of the cameras, and while Taylor isn’t afraid of people seeing him with Ryan, he knows Ryan is more comfortable that way. He throws and arm around him, and smiles as Ryan leans into him. 

Jordan takes the ice with Barzal and Tavares, and out of the corner of his eye, Taylor can see Tara clapping her hands together, excited that the “blue and orange guys” have taken the ice, like Jordan has told him. 

“It’s like she knows,” Jordan had said, one day over facetime. “Sometimes she thinks we’re watching Isle games when we catch Oilers games.” 

Isn’t that something.

“Ready?” Ryan says, squeezing Taylor’s hand in his own. 

Taylor looks around at Jordan’s mom and dad, his wife and their daughter, then back to Ryan. In a room of people that love Jordan, Taylor doesn’t feel out of place at all, but for once, it’s nice to love him in the way that they do. 

It’s nice to love Ryan in the way he thought he’d always love Jordan. A change of scenery, if you will. 


End file.
